On my faithful steed the green and cream Columbia 1-speed that answers to the name of Trigger I cowboy up Pleasant Street at a gallop on one of those early-spring, late afternoons... the temperature sundowning south of freezing,the icy wind chill feathering my hair, my bare knuckles and ears white with impending frostbite, and my spring jacket snapping unzipped, like a vest, in the breeze(you never see Roy Rogers ridingall buttoned up to the neck in three layers...or wearing mittens for his mom) to whoooaaaa-up under the low naked limbs of the playground maples...inching to a dead stop... feet still on the pedals...upright... balanced... (trick rider that I am)(Easy, fella!) and slowly... eversoslightly cranking myself uprightwardand standing poised precariously in the stirrups (the rodeo crowd applauding as one!) reaching up to pluck the first of the finger-fruit one long, sap-sweetened icicle flecked with bits of black bark... and clamp it in my teeth like a Longbranch Cheroot, my tongue delighting itself over the maple-Swishersweet surface...